


Across the Water

by carpfish



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: A3 Guy Week 2021, Constructive Criticism Welcome, Food Porn, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Spoilers for Act 8
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:17:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpfish/pseuds/carpfish
Summary: It’s easy to fall into practiced patterns of guarding without interfering, not speaking unless spoken to. Citronia has encouraged him to approach him as equals, but there are still moments when it seems better to watch without breaking the silence; even without the old beliefs to accompany them, old habits still tend to linger. Citronia doesn’t address Guy or pay him any mind for several minutes, the both of them savoring the sight of city lights wavering on the water and the warm embrace of alcohol.Guy watches Citron's closing night performance of "A Clockwork Heart", and makes an offer from his own.
Relationships: Citron/Guy (A3!)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	Across the Water

**Author's Note:**

> A late entry to A3! Guy Week; happy (belated) birthday to the best man in the game!!
> 
> This is an exchange that has been knocking around in my head since I watched the stage version of A Clockwork Heart. I know this conversation is not sufficient to tackle everything that is wrong with Zafra's issues of [handwaves at Guy backstory] but I just wanted to tackle the individual, personal relationship between these two. 
> 
> This fic also signals my official switch from "Zahra" to "Zafra" since Act 8 is in the English version now. Be aware of graphic depictions of food, because I wanted my gratuitious food porn, as well as my unabashed love for Fukuoka City. I miss traveling. 
> 
> Also, biggest thanks to kusemono (Glitchgoat) for beta'ing! This would be a much poorer fic without him. 
> 
> Long preamble to a short fic lol Thanks for reading, and enjoy!

The Fukuoka run of _A Clockwork Heart_ finishes to a standing ovation and considerable critical acclaim. Audience surveys return filled with pages of praise for the topical improvisation of daily ad-libs, the deepened interpretations of the characters since the opening run, and the chemistry between the leads. Guy has watched and rewatched the stage recording of the Spring Troupe’s third play. As part of the touring staff and Boyd’s understudy, he’d been present for all the pre-tour rehearsals and watched from backstage during all their shows. None of that compared to watching from the audience seats on closing night, the way that Citronia had transformed the moment he’d stepped onto the stage as S on opening night in Osaka. Under the blinding lights and smoke machine haze, Guy had recognized the face of the smiling, teasing prince he’d protected since childhood. But every distant word, movement, and expression was that of an unfeeling homunculus, yet ignorant to the ways of the heart.

The story veers closer to a tragedy than most of Spring’s other scripts, with the type of ending more likely to inspire tears than mirth from its rapt audience members. But there’s a distinct hopefulness to its conclusion, carried in Luke’s watery smile from position zero and the glint of the gilded clockwork key around his neck. Guy had heard that this script had been influenced by its writer’s personal circumstances, but he cannot help but think that Minagi truly is an optimist. When the cast reappears for curtain call, the shower of applause from the seats grows to a thundering roar. It’s almost a relief to hear the cheerful rise and fall of Citronia’s usual cadence as he gives his final comments to the audience. Guy recognizes that he is far from objective in his assessment, but upon when he returns backstage to greet the triumphant cast and catches sight of Citronia’s effervescent expression post-encore, he cannot possibly think of the play’s ending as anything but a happy one. 

The wrap party takes place at a late-night yatai by the river. Mankai’s merry band takes up the seats of two whole carts even with their smaller-than-usual numbers. Bowls of piping hot tonkotsu ramen with globes of fat pooling at the broth surface, chicken skewers grilled on aluminium racks above glowing coals, and heavy slices of eel dripping with dark syrupy sauce: all these delicacies and more are savored and passed around the cast and crew, as well as plenty of drink for anyone who wants. Guy marks down the names of several exquisite local sakes that he wants to bring back as souvenirs for Yukishiro, nearly scalds his tongue on the searing innards of hot-off-the-wok gyoza, and at one point, is force fed an entire stick of fried mentaiko by Citron. Merriment and clamor echo far over the Naka river into the late hours of the night, irregardless of the next morning’s early shinkansen ride back to Tokyo and the hangovers that are sure to accompany it. Furuichi tends to be looser with the purse strings than usual when it comes to wrap party budgets- which isn’t to say that he becomes _generous_ just yet. The occasions are important for “boosting actor morale”, but only after they’ve earned their ticket and merchandise sales. Spring Troupe in particular truly feasts with the abandon of young people who know they’re being bankrolled by a pair of office elites and the Zafran Kingdom’s royal coffers. The grills and camper stoves are never unlit, while the drinks and conversation between actors and cart owners alike flow without end. 

It’s well past the running of the last train when Guy follows Citronia, not to all-night all-you-can-drink karaoke like he’d expected, but to a small public park on the bank of the river: a spot of shade and respite in between the brightly-lit street of yatai and the fluorescent glow of a convenience store. It’s winter in Kyushu, which is to say that it’s far warmer than back in Tokyo, though still far colder than Zafra. Citronia tilts his face up towards the ashy-clouded sky, savoring the coolness of the night breeze without any fear of chill. 

Guy observes without comment, half a meter to the side. It’s easy to fall into practiced patterns of guarding without interfering, not speaking unless spoken to. Citronia has encouraged him to approach him as equals, but there are still moments when it seems better to watch without breaking the silence; even without the old beliefs to accompany them, old habits still tend to linger. Citronia doesn’t address Guy or pay him any mind for several minutes, the both of them savoring the sight of city lights wavering on the water and the warm embrace of alcohol. 

“Did you enjoy the play, Guy?” Citronia finally asks. The rolled syllables of his Zafran curl over his tongue and leave his lips with the gentleness of a sigh, low and sonorous with a ballad-like quality, rather than the spritely rhythm of his Japanese. There is no-one else in the park but the two of them, and it is often in moments like this that Citronia reverts to his mother tongue. Not out of a desire for secrets or privacy, but more for the pleasure of a common language when there is nobody to be excluded by it. If it sounds noble and kind a motive for even the smallest of decisions, that’s because it is- Citronia had been taught to consider such things from a young age, and Guy had been around to ensure he’d learnt it. 

“Of course. Watching it as part of the audience was truly a different experience from watching from recordings or backstage. I am thankful for the opportunity.” It’s a level response, one that recognizes that he would have never been able to take time off the closing night show if Citronia had not personally insisted upon it. 

At this answer, Citronia’s eyes open by a crack, slits of pale diamond even in the washed-out illumination of the Family Mart signage. His shadow drags long over the hexagonal cobblestones to where the ink-dark river laps at its banks. When Guy searches for his gaze, he finds it aimed far across the water, as if crossing oceans. 

“Luke… was not a very good master, was he?” Citronia comment is accompanied by a sharp laugh that’s acerbic in a way that he only gets when speaking of home. “Insisting on friendship and equality, then flaunting his position as master to command S into doing what he wanted. Even if he thought it was for S’s own good…”

This isn’t something that Citronia has done in some time, and not a subject that Guy expected the prince to bring up. As he tries to formulate a careful response, he can sense the gears turning in his own head- a metaphor that he once took far too seriously, but is still quite fond of, all things considered. He doesn’t want to give too broad a platitude to be helpful, nor criticism so pointed that it seems like an attack. He used to give these sorts of responses to Citronia all the time, but back then all he had to do was recite a script. It’s much harder now he has to think up the replies by himself. 

“I believe that Luke was doing the best he knew how,” is what he finally settles on. “He cared for S in his own way even when no-one else did. I think that much was clear from your portrayal.” And it had been: in every look of fussy concern that Minagi hadn’t been able to keep from his face on stage, in every time the young Citronia had offered his stoic bodyguard a share of his dates from afternoon tea. 

Citronia hums, swinging his legs listlessly on the park bench. He doesn’t seem placated, but he doesn’t look entirely dissatisfied either; or perhaps he’s just a little ambivalently drunk. Guy remembers the same motions from long ago, the young crown prince kicking his feet while seated on garden walls and palace balconies. Back then, he hadn't understood Citronia's inability to accept a perfectly logical answer, but now he can sympathize a bit more with the disconnect between what you think and what you feel. 

“Even so. To create a person to become your friend, to force him into friendship with you. That isn’t how things work. Friendship must be given willingly," Citronia replies, arguing against himself. Perhaps it's the loosening of inhibitions and higher reasoning functions that allows Citronia's face to scrunch up the way it used to when faced with a particularly difficult tutoring session, or when he was upset with his brothers but could not say as much. It isn’t a face that Guy’s seen on him in a long time; first because Citronia knew better than to show his frustration, and later because he had less reason for it. Then, as if he notices Guy watching him, Citronia turns away, hiding his face in the shadows. The shapes of their reflections flicker on the water. Guy can think of a dozen ways that his frontal cortex is also impaired by alcohol in the same way that Citronia’s is. That has to be the only reason why he acts as he does.

Three broad steps to close the distance between then, before Guy drops to one knee in front of the bench. A kiss into air, cheek brushing against cheek: a familiar, intimate act that isn't uncommon between close friends and family back home. Judging by the surprise that jolts through Citronia, it must have been some time. There are not many who would have dared act so freely around the crown prince, and it is certainly not a greeting that any of their Japanese friends would engage in. As for Guy, he’d only watched others kiss one another like this; for him, this is a first.

To his credit, Citronia maintains his poise until Guy has completed the customary three kisses, waits until he’s risen to his feet and taken a step back. “What was that?”

Guy insubordinately stares Citronia down as if nothing had happened, maintaining a perfectly level poker face. Which isn’t hard, given his training; it’s just amusing. “Given willingly. As you said, _Citron_.” The shorter, more casual name that Citronia uses in Japan sounds fresh and light on the tip of his tongue, like the lingering warmth of Citronia’s cheek pressed against his. 

Citronia’s crystalline eyes are filled with wonder and a bit of indignation, his brow furrowing and his lips pressing together like he hates to lose. Then, his expression softens to something a bit heavier and sullen, with a half-hearted smile. It’s a fascinating progression of feelings to witness, all broadcasted so plainly on the face of someone who should be but a distant and collected leader on a faraway throne. Even before he knew the meaning of emotion, Guy had always watched them bloom so vividly on Citronia’s features. It’s something he’s grown to love.

“This doesn’t absolve me,” Citronia says, finally speaking plainly. Even so, there’s a measure of relief in his words. 

“It doesn’t,” Guy agrees, just as plainly in return. “I still offer it to you.” 

Silence stretches out between them and across the river, to the glimmer of shopping district streetlamps and the bright LEDs of billboard advertisements and shop signage. The nighttime breeze holds a hint of chill, and Guy can hear the faint clamor of food carts and taxis still operating in the distance. It’s a far cry from Zafra City’s lights spread out like a carpet of stars from the palace balcony, but it’s close enough not to feel lonely, and distant enough that Guy feels refreshed. It’s the beauty of the scenery, the warmth of the food in his belly, and the way Citronia’s palms remain pressed on the stone bench, that allow Guy to take the final step forward, and sit down next to him. 

“You are a prince of Zafra. But also, you worry too much, my young friend.” With this, Guy claps a broad palm on the top of Citronia’s head and begins patting it with impunity. He has to actively fight to keep a grin from spreading on his lips at the sound of indignation that Citronia makes.

“Big words from a useless retainer! Maybe you should have bought a elderly discount for the train tomorrow!” Citronia immediately switches back to rolicking Japanese, shoving Guy with his shoulder even as he leans into him. The angle is such that his face is hidden again, but Guy can anticipate his expression with perfect clarity, especially from the rise in Citronia’s body temperature. 

This time, Guy doesn’t make any effort to hold back his smile and watches it mirrored in his reflection in the water. If the warmth in his chest is any indication, it is a smile from his own, clockwork heart. 


End file.
